Grown Woman


Leah Hill

she is lithe, voiced and dreamy. intention is mirrored in motion is mirrored in muscles is mirrored in mantras, and so on, and so she moves. she admires the contraction of her muscles, the lewd mass of her calves and thighs, and is pleased.

when the anchored eyelids of time intrude, she quiets the buzzing inside her, drops eaves on happy children and swallows the accompanying soft joy that tastes so much like apprehension. there is another joy, beyond windows, chain-link, interstates, college towns, microclimates, mountain ranges, state lines. there is a joy beyond the quiet joy. she knows because that truth is calligraphied on her bones. she believes it because she wrote it.

hazes pass and she pines for silk. she snaps her spindly fingers in 4/4 time and nearby trees collapse. the favored willow she collects and props up like a broom, spends hours pruning and fidgeting with its tendrils, and ponders all the neglected atoms of human bodies and sea bodies and earth’s body. the protein bulk of her quivers with the waiting, the wanting, the wilding nature compressed into checklists and bank accounts and binaries as blinding as the very star she orbits. she snaps her fingers at her patience. she will count to three, and spring.

Previous Next